


The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [143]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Destiel - Freeform, Estate Agents, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The urge to obtain a good home is human nature – but when a lot of money is involved, some are prepared to kill those who stand in the way of their right to more mon..... a better life.





	The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge (1895)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WickedBlackWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedBlackWings/gifts).



I mentioned some time ago the history of our dear home, 221B Baker Street – I always thought of it as such, despite our only being tenants there – and how it had evolved from being part of Glendower Mansion. As the great metropolis expanded its tendrils ever further outwards, the pressure to build on existing land became ever more intense, and it was a development of this sort which brought us our next case.

Christmas and the New Year had been a joyous affair, and not just because I had survived yet another attempt by the Fates to take my Sherlock from me. That I now bore two of his rings on my finger made me feel more married than any husband (yes, or the other thing that started with the twenty-third letter of the alphabet!), and I only had to look down on that tiny blue sapphire to think of those blue eyes staring lovingly at me to feel impossibly happy. My happiness was only augmented further when, on New Year's Eve, Mrs. Harvelle surprised neither of us by announcing that she would soon be being referred to as Mrs. Singer. Sherlock took us all out to a meal at his brother Gaylord's latest hotel, where he had booked a night for the happy couple. Then we returned alone to Baker Street, where we saw in the New Year together. Fireworks inside and out, so to speak!

Thank the Lord that I had New Year's Day off! I was still limping on the second!

+~+~+ 

The gentleman who brought us our next case was shown up by Mrs. Harvelle one cold January afternoon. Despite my lamentable lack of detective skills, my immediate thought on seeing him was 'philatelist', which proved quite close to the mark (all right, 'for once'!) as he was in fact a philatelist and numismatist. He was announced as Mr. Edwin Jones, and was about sixty-five years of age with one of what our estimable landlady had once referred to as 'those quiet faces'. He took a seat in our fireside chair, and began.

“I must start”, he said, “by informing you that this is not really a matter that involves me as such, and although my small income is enough to sustain me in my retirement, any payment I could make for your services would be minimal. Yet certain events in my neighbourhood have given me cause for some disquiet, and I wondered if you might consider looking into them.”

“You are worried about your neighbours?” I asked, confused. He smiled.

“I state things badly”, he said. “I have a small place in the town of Wembley, Middlesex, by name of Lilac Cottage. It is in fact a converted gate-house to a large house set some distance back, whose owners some time back sold off a swathe of their lands either side of the entrance-way to their house for development. The house, somewhat confusingly, is called Wisteria Lodge. This fact is important only in that it explains that I do not employ a maid as such, but pay half the salary of one of the girls at the Lodge, who keeps the place clean for me. I can manage most things by myself, and am in fact fond of cooking, with a special partiality towards anything involving bacon.”

Sherlock's eyes lit up. I wondered if our guest knew that he had just improved his standing no end. Next thing we knew, people would be offering payment in breakfast foods, and Sherlock would in all probability happily accept all such.

He was looking at me in That Way again! I had to make an effort to calm my breathing. At this time of a morning?

“The girl who does for me, Helen, tells me a lot of what happens up at the Lodge”, our guest continued, mercifully unaware of my distracted state. “I would try to dissuade her, but then I would normally never divulge what she says to anyone else, so I long ago decided that it was harmless enough. Until recently, when matters began to take a rather alarming turn.”

“Although we have had a railway through the town for many years, it was only two years ago that we acquired our own station, to serve the huge amusement park that the railway company has built next to it. It is developments arising from that which bring me here today. My house and Wisteria Lodge both lie quite close to the new railway station. Last year, a local developer, a Mr. Uriel Sheffield, began buying up properties in the area so that he could replace the large houses with many more smaller properties. He is known to local people as 'the Shark', as he always wears one of those fake smiles which he doubtless thinks comes across as sincere, and his business dealings are what the local newspaper describes as 'oftentimes questionable'. I saw him once in town, and he quite unnerved me, I must say. I myself would not have objected to selling to him had I been asked, but he approached the Misses Palliser who own the Lodge first, of course, and they declined. I believe that that refusal helped to deter other people from accepting his not always generous offers.”

“And now something has happened to the Pallisers”, Sherlock observed, “and your shared maid has told you of her concerns. “What, exactly?”

He hesitated.

“Helen says that Miss Lavinia and Miss Sheila have become 'unlucky'”, he said. “And the accidents only began _after_ they refused Mr. Sheffield's 'kind offer'.”

“Have you perchance kept a list of these 'accidents'?” Sherlock asked. Our guest nodded and took out a small notebook. 

“Last October, Miss Lavinia slipped on the hallway floor”, he said. “The entrance-way rug had been taken away to be washed, and it was thought that the housemaid had polished the floor too much. This happened on the sixth, two days after they had given their final refusal to Mr. Sheffield; I did not record the incident at the time, but it chanced to be the day before my birthday.”

Sherlock frowned. “Go on”, he said.

“In November, Miss Sheila suffered an attack of food-poisoning”, Mr. Jones continued. “That was on the twenty-first. She had always had a weakness for oysters, and the doctor said that she must have found a bad lot.”

“I suppose that the maid thought otherwise”, Sherlock said.

“In this instance”, our guest said, “she knew.”

I raised my eyebrows at that.

“How?” Sherlock asked.

“The order that was delivered was larger than expected", our visitor explained, "and since Miss Lavinia does not like oysters, they said that the staff could share the spare ones amongst themselves. Only a few each to those who liked them, but none of the staff were sick. Helen was suspicious, and since she was aware that my nephew works as a chemist, she kept two of her own and passed them on to me. I duly gave them to my nephew, and he told me that the poison they contained could only have been placed there deliberately.”

“Why did you not inform the police?” Sherlock asked.

“I had to promise Helen that I would not”, he said ruefully. “The Misses Palliser are good people, but.... very set in their ways. I do not think that they would take a maid's word on such a matter, even with the evidence. Besides....”

He tailed off. 

“Besides, the fact that none of the staff suffered any illness clearly implies that the poison was added the oysters were divided, which means that someone in the house is involved”, Sherlock said. "Presumably you believe that if Helen spoke out, they might well have the girl fired as a threat to Mr. Sheffield's ambitions.”

He nodded.

“I do not like to say it, but Helen has some suspicions about Farrant, the butler”, he said. “She told me that he was always complaining about not being paid enough, but ever since the 'accidents' have started, he suddenly seems to have money. He is not an overly pleasant person, from what little I know of him.”

“Interesting”, Sherlock said. “Please go on.”

“The last incident occurred over Christmas”, he said. “Boxing Day, to be precise. The ladies share a scruffy little Yorkshire terrier, called Marmaduke. An adorable little creature that sometimes runs round the grounds for hours on end; Lord alone knows where he gets his energy. Miss Sheila slipped on a ball that the dog had left out, and had to have her leg put in a cast.”

“That could have been an accident”, I said. He shook her head.

“Helen was sure that it was not”, he said, “and the other staff backed her up. You see, she told me that the dog is fiercely possessive of that ball, and will only bring it to the ladies when they wish to play with him. And he always returns it to his basket afterwards, without fail; he will even tidy it up if it is removed and placed elsewhere in the house. Someone extracted it and left it at the top of the stairs for Miss Sheila to trip over. Thankfully my friend Archie – Doctor Peters, who lives along the same road – was bringing her some medicine at the time, and she fell into him rather than all the way down.”

“This is verging on attempted murder”, Sherlock said with a frown. “And with one incident a month, another strike is likely soon. We must move fast. May I ask what your own plans are for today, sir?”

“There is a coin exhibition at the British Museum that I wished to see”, he said. “I was going to wait a few weeks as the crowds are always larger when it has only just started, but in view of what has been happening, I felt that it was imperative to request your help at once.”

“You were quite right so to do”, Sherlock said. “We shall take this case.”

As always, the 'we' gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

+~+~+

Mr. Jones left us, after thanking us for our time. Sherlock sat there, deep in thought.

“This is worrisome”, he said. “We must act, before one or both of those ladies has another so-called 'accident'. I shall go to Wembley tomorrow morning.”

I stared at him in silent disapproval. He chuckled. 

“I do not think that two elderly ladies are going to attempt to assault me”, he grinned. “Our Mr. Sheffield wishes to scare the ladies sufficiently to force them to sell, I would wager at some way below the current market value. I would welcome your help as well.”

“What would you have me do?” I asked, only a little mollified.

“Are you free for the rest of the day?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then can you take a train to Wembley and find out two things?” he asked. “First, check the size of Mr. Sheffield's estate agency in the town, and if he has any competition. And second, after you take a look at the house, find out what similar properties are selling for in the area. That information would help me greatly.”

“And you promise it is only the ladies that you will be seeing tomorrow?” I asked suspiciously. Sherlock was recovered from his recent beating, but he still moved gingerly around the room when he thought that I was not looking at him, and he had been more exhausted than usual after our welcoming in the New Year together. As well as.....

“I am not a cripple”, he smiled, interrupting my thoughts. “Last night should have showed you that!”

I blushed fiercely. It was a good point.

“I am coming with you when you go”, I said. “I can wait outside if you wish to see the ladies by yourself, but I am not letting you go alone, not with you not yet fully recovered.”

I fully expected him to argue the point, but to my surprise he did not. He merely smiled, and resumed his paper. I got my coat and left for the station, wondering at his compliance. Of course I welcomed it, but it was just.... not like him.

Lord help me, I was getting more like the proverbial nagging wife every day! Well, at least I had the ring for it!

+~+~+

“Wisteria Lodge is a most handsome property”, I told Sherlock as we lay together later than night. Now that we were both in our forties, we increasingly liked to lie with each other, just enjoying being together. “Late Georgian if I am any judge, so slightly younger than 221B; its only detraction is that someone has attempted to graft some Swiss architecture onto it at some point. The ladies' father, Mr. George Palliser, was smart enough to acquire the two adjoining properties when they came up for sale and had the houses knocked down, then sold off the fringe lands including our the road houses adjoining our client's place, so their lands today are still about double what one would expect for a house that size. There is also a small copse between the Lodge and all the new road properties, so the place is very quiet. There are three other properties further along the road, but our client was right; the layout is such that unless the Pallisers sell, the options for development would be very limited.”

“And Mr. Sheffield?” Sherlock asked. I shuddered.

“I saw him leaving the estate agents that he owns. It is called “Sheffield and Brookwood”, but the girl at the local restaurant says that Mr. Brookwood left for Norfolk last year, and the name had not yet been altered. From the very large photograph of his in his office, our 'shark' is what they call a 'half-caste' – I hate the expression, but unfortunately the English language has nothing better yet – and looks a lot like a slightly younger Henriksen, but there is something about the man which marks him out as a scoundrel. There is one other estate agents in the town, Mackworth's, though it is considerably smaller.”

“Did you find the value of the property?” Sherlock asked.

“The lady at Mackworth's was quite helpful”, I said, deciding not to mention the irritating fact that said lady had actually asked me if my famous partner was still single. “She said that they had lost a lot of business to Mr. Sheffield of late, and that she knows that he offered Mr. Kitchener who has a similar-sized property round the corner in Glade Road, just under seven hundred pounds for his property, “Glen Eyre”. I looked at the plans, and Wisteria Lodge is about double the acreage. And in a superior location on higher ground; the river runs nearby but there would be no danger of flooding.”

“And since we are talking development, all those factors are important”, Sherlock said. “I am still sorting out certain arrangements for this case, and will not be able to go now until the weekend. Would you be able to walk to the post office tomorrow morning to send a telegram for me?”

“Of course”, I said. “What is it about?”

He chuckled.

“Assuming that Mr. Sheffield does not pre-empt us, we are going to try to force his hand”, he explained. “A mysterious new buyer is about to arrive in Wembley, looking to settle into a large house near the railway station and to establish himself in the neighbourhood.”

I grinned.

“I suspect I know this new buyer”, I said.

“You are just about to”, he said. “In a Biblical sense.”

It was really unfair that he could as much as just kiss me, and I was putty in his hands. I sighed happily as he worked his way inside my mouth, relaxing deeper into the bed as he clambered on top of me. We might now both be the wrong side of forty, but Sherlock's stamina was always phenomenal, and I could only smile lazily as he worked himself to between my legs, instinctively raised in hopeful expectation. 

“I thought I might try something different tonight”, he smirked. 

I looked at him expectantly. Then he produced a long black feather from somewhere I knew not, and I raised my eyebrows. At least until he brushed it gently over my left nipple, sensitive as ever, and I whined in pleasure. 

“So beautiful”, he praised, and I blushed deeply. “I love watching you come apart, John Watson. My perfect mate.”

He continued to brush against both my nipples and my painfully leaking cock, and I barely noticed his working me open until I felt his cock head at my entrance. I grunted my approval, and he pushed in in one long stroke. I let out a noise that was somewhere between a strangled yelp and the mating-call of some distressed African wildebeest, and in just seconds I was coming violently, whilst he continued to stoke the feather against my chest and nipples. 

“Mwah?” I managed. He smiled, and continued his work, and incredibly, I started getting hard again. Mercifully he slowed down his actions, perhaps a little perturbed at my laboured breathing, but when I managed a strangled “more!”, he resumed, and within minutes I was coming a second time, this time echoed by his own orgasm deep inside me. I sighed happily and fell even deeper into the comfort of the mattress. This was Heaven!

+~+~+

Sherlock's telegram, which I managed to post after limping what felt like several hundred miles to the post-office, stated that a Mr. Anaximander West was looking for a large London property in the central Middlesex area, and had already sent scouts ahead to examine several possible sites, a list of which was attached. Naturally it included Wisteria Lodge, and I fully expected Sherlock to accompany me on Saturday when I went back. I was surprised when he instead arranged to meet me in a little restaurant in Wembley High Street

I had spent what seemed like an eternity in the restaurant before I realized someone was standing next to my table. I looked up to see a dark blond man with dark glasses, seriously over-gelled hair, a moustache and an utterly horrendous pink and white chequered shirt. 

“May I be of service?” I asked, being sufficiently courteous not to add in free directions to the nearest gentleman's outfitter's. The walking disaster's reply nearly bowled me over.

“Only if you can order Mr. Anaximander West a coffee.”

I stared in astonishment. The man opposite looked nothing like my friend – until he took off his glasses, and I found myself staring into those familiar blue eyes of his.

“Sherlock?” I said, stunned. He grinned.

“It is good to know that I can still surprise you”, he said. “Coffee, John?”

I managed to wave a waitress over to give her the order, whilst a strange man sat opposite me. It was.. unnerving.

“I have had a most productive day”, he said happily. “I went to Wisteria Lodge – as Mr. West, of course – and explained that I wished to make the ladies an offer for their house of fifteen hundred guineas, if they were prepared to sell. I explained that I wished to refurbish the house to my own taste, but would fully understand how such a move may make them unwilling to sell, so I invited them to visit my current house, “Bellbrook”, in the village of Denham, which I have had similarly 'improved'. They will be travelling there tomorrow lunch-time; it is a government property that Bacchus has made available to me for the occasion.”

“They will be disappointed when no offer materializes”, I pointed out.

“I had to lie to them, as I was sure that the maid was correct about the butler”, Sherlock said. “I nearly knocked him over when I left, as he was listening just the other side of the door!”

I chuckled at that.

“I then went to the offices of Mr. Sheffield”, he continued. “A most unpleasant character; we should perhaps be grateful that he has limited his criminal activities to the property world thus far. Mr. Jones was quite correct in his aquatic appellation; the man's smile was definitely shark-like. I took details of three other properties I had not yet considered, and mentioned events at the Lodge in our conversation. Clearly Farrant had not reached him yet; the man spluttered into his coffee when I mentioned my interest in the Lodge.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because Mr. Sheffield now knows that he is in danger of being outbid”, he said. “He will try something to prevent the ladies from reaching Denham tomorrow, which means that he must act tonight. And then we will have him!”

“But he would not wish the ladies dead, surely?” I asked.

“He might”, Sherlock said. “My research has showed that, in the event of both ladies' deaths, the house passes to a first cousin, a Mr. Hosea Brown who lives in Ashford, Surrey. And Mr. Sheffield has, I also found, happened to visit that town just before this run of 'accidents' began. If he has obtained an assurance that Mr. Brown would sell upon inheriting the property, then the ladies' lives are indeed in danger.”

+~+~+

Since it was January, it was already all but dark by the time we left the restaurant. I must admit that I was quite relieved that Sherlock had divested himself of his disguise in the cab we took back to Sylvan Road; hearing the familiar voice coming from an unfamiliar form was disconcerting, to say the least. And that atrocious shirt... well!

It was fully dark by the time we were dropped off in Sylvan Road, and we made our way silently past Lilac Cottage and into the grounds of Wisteria Lodge. Sherlock led me to the stables, which were separated from the main house by a screen of beech trees.

“I expect Mr. Sheffield to bring some men to try to tamper with the Pallisers' carriage this evening”, he explained. “I have posted a guard around the house though, just in case.

“What if they wait until the small hours?” I asked, not looking forward to an all-night vigil in an ice-cold building. Sherlock chuckled.

“My analysis of Mr. Sheffield suggests both that he likes to do jobs by himself, and that he enjoys his sleep”, Sherlock said. “He will come as soon as the house had had a chance to settle down, especially as that convenient wall of trees screens off these buildings. We will adjourn to the safety of the offices at the back. I have left one or two little 'surprises' for our visitors.”

I sighed.

“You are not going to ask me what they are?” he asked, surprised.

“You never tell me”, I said, in my best put-upon tone. He chuckled.

“Watch out for the rope!” he advised.

+~+~+

Sherlock had slightly overestimated our target's preference for early nights, because it was well over an hour before I heard the sound of the padlock on the barn door being forced (my genius friend had effortlessly picked the lock of our office's exit onto the back yard to gain us access). Then a familiar figure emerged, his shark-teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Three other men were with him, one carrying a bag of what were presumably tools.

Outnumbered, I thought, annoyed. I was distracted by one of the men crying out in surprise.

“What's wrong?” his boss hissed in an angry tone. “For God's sake, keep your voice down, Billy!”

“Just a rope hanging down from the ceiling, boss”, the man said. He grabbed the rope and pulled at it. 

The next moment all four men cried out in alarm, as something liquid sloshed down from the dark above them. They all immediately withdrew to the dark corner of the building, presumably in case someone had heard them and might come to investigate. When nothing happened for several minutes, there was a yelp of pain.

“Idiot!” came Mr. Sheffield's voice. “What the hell did you want to go and do that for? Now we're all covered in paint.”

“It'll wash off, boss”, one of the other men whispered. “Let's get to it, eh? Timmy said he'd fixed it so the old girls' night-time drinkies were drugged, and the servants' quarters are right the other side of the house.”

One of the men took a lantern from the bag and lit it, then placed it next to the carriage whilst the other two men shimmied underneath it. There was the sound of sawing, followed by some general shifting around. I wondered what they were up to, but did not want to risk detection whilst we were outnumbered, so I held my peace (and my gun). Finally the men finished what they were doing and left. 

“What were they up to?” I asked, wincing as I pulled myself upright.

“Sawing through the carriage axle, then patching a repair which would have broken once it reached a certain speed”, Sherlock said. “We will give them a further ten minutes to be on the safe side, then I propose that we should depart to the police station and see If they would like to catch a criminal.”

+~+~+

Wembley Police Station was manned by a middle-aged dark-haired fellow called Sergeant Edmund Thornleigh. He listened gravely to Sherlock's account of the night's adventures, then frowned.

“We do only have your word – and the doctor's, of course – as to this”, he said heavily. “Juries may be reluctant to convict on such, especially against someone who is regarded as a pillar of the community.”

“I might suggest then that Wembley needs some new pillars”, Sherlock said. “But it is quite easily proven.”

“How?” the sergeant asked.

“Mr. Sheffield will not want paint-spattered clothes lying around after such a night”, Sherlock said. “He will do one of two things, and either way, you will catch him. Now, here is what you need to do....”

+~+~+

As might have been expected, Mr. Sheffield was less than pleased when two policemen brought him into the police station the following morning. And when he found himself in a small dark interview room with his lawyer, Sergeant Thornleigh, Sherlock and myself, he became positively furious.

“I do hope that you have a good reason for inviting my client here today, sergeant”, his lawyer said icily. “Your superiors do not, I am sure, take kindly to cases of wrongful arrest.”

“This is the gentleman who asked to see Mr. Sheffield, sir”, Sergeant Thornleigh said courteously. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective down from London.”

Clearly Mr. Sheffield had heard of my friend. Even his dark skin paled.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

To my surprise, Sherlock walked over to the window and closed the shutters, leaving the unlit room in near-darkness.

“Let me tell you a story, Mr. Sheffield”, he said. “It concerns a ruthless developer who wishes to buy up a lot of houses cheaply, then make a fortune on them. Business is of course business, but when two ladies decline to sell him their property, his plans are threatened.”

“He uses his wealth to buy the loyalty of the butler, a key servant in the house, and a series of unfortunate 'accidents' begin to befall the ladies. He hopes, possibly correctly, that this run of bad luck will convince them to sell. But unbeknownst to him, a maid in the house has talked, and the case ends up in the lap of a certain consulting detective who comes up with a counter-plan. In disguise, he plays the part of a rival buyer – in a hideous pink shirt - who can outbid even our wealthy developer.”

The developer's eyes widened, but he remained silent.

“There is still one chance, however”, Sherlock went on. “In the event of the two ladies' untimely demise before any sale, the house will pass to a first cousin who, shamefully, has agreed that he would then sell to the developer. Murder is murder, but cash is king, so our developer visits the ladies' house the night before he knows that they are planning to take a long carriage ride, and fixes it so that their carriage will crash at full speed, thus removing the obstacles to his ever-expanding wealth.”

“The only hitch comes when one of the developer's henchmen pulls at a rope hanging down from the ceiling”, Sherlock smiled, as the developer looked increasingly worried. “All four men are covered in paint. Now of course this could be dismissed, except for the small matter that the paint in question is that most interesting of inventions, luminescent paint.”

Sherlock pulled a pile of clothes from a bag and spread them out on the table. In the dark, the base of the trousers shone with blue paint, which reflected the dark look in Mr. Sheffield's eyes. 

“I put that up there”, Sherlock said, “and I also laid a covering of paint on the floor around the carriage. These were recovered from your dustbin this morning, Mr. Sheffield. This paint is quite unique, and I think that you will find it hard to explain to a jury exactly how that exact shade of blue paint went from the Pallisers' stables to your clothes. And that when they are examined, further traces will be found on the boots that you are currently wearing.”

The man suddenly lunged for Sherlock, who stepped quickly backwards. Sergeant Thornleigh reached to restrain Mr. Sheffield, but I was closer and pushed in between him and Sherlock before shoving him bodily back into the chair, snarling at him as I did so. As the man's lawyer spluttered indignantly, the sergeant opened the door, flooding the room with dazzling light, and summoned two of his constables who led the furious developer away.

“He was prepared to kill for money”, the policeman said, sounding stunned. 

“Death would have been likely, or at least a very serious injury to the passengers in that coach”, Sherlock said. “Which reminds me; we must be returning to Wisteria Lodge, and explaining what has happened to those poor ladies. I only hope they will not mind losing out on those fifteen hundred guineas.”

“Considering that you have probably saved their lives, they should not!” I said hotly.

+~+~+

There is little more to be said. Mr. Uriel Sheffield went to prison for a long time for his crimes, his only relief being that the jury declined to find him guilty of attempted murder, thus sparing his wretched neck. The poor Misses Palliser were shocked by the whole affair, and not long after decided to retire somewhere smaller; Wisteria Lodge was sold to an American businessman - coincidentally for fifteen hundred guineas, oddly enough - and he sold about half of the grounds for development but kept the house much as it always had been. 

+~+~+

In our next adventure, I discover that murderers come in all shapes and sizes, whilst Sherlock tells a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> Guineas (so-called because the gold used to make the original coins came from the Guinea region in West Africa) were last minted as separate coins as long ago as the year 1816, and are today largely 'used' in the world of horse-racing. At the time of this story they were sometimes quoted when one wanted to make a good societal impression, such as for house-buying. A guinea was twenty-one shillings, one shilling over a pound; the half-guinea (10s 6d, or ten and six) appears on the Mad Hatter's hat in 'Alice in Wonderland'.


End file.
